A Final Inscription
by Auxphono
Summary: A possible 7th year yearbook entry by Neville Longbottom.


Title: "A Final Inscription"  
Author: Obscurus ( obscurusfix@yahoo.com )  
Category: Angst  
Pairings: None  
Rating: PG-13 (for strong subject matter)  
Spoilers: Books 1-4  
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The views and actions of the characters in this fanfic are not those of J.K Rowling, the views/actions of the characters are of my own creation and I take great liberty with them. I apologize to J.K. (if she ever has to read this) for running away with the characters and using them for my own means of entertainment. No harm or offense is meant.  
  
Author's notes: A 'thank you' goes out to those of you whom responded to this on my livejournal. I appreciate feedback in any form.   
  


***  


  
My greatest fear in life is but one man. A man who could curdle milk with a mere glare. His eyes look at me like I'm an insect on a dissection table. I find myself pinned to his gaze like a butterfly pinned to a board. Some say that this fear is foolish. Some say that I'm just being cowardly and that I live in a sheltered world. A simple world in which my only fear could be an unfriendly teacher. Those who tell me this have no idea why I find myself awake in the middle of the night, waiting for those dark eyes to deliver me into death. I fear this man because I know what his kind did, what he did. Or, at least, I've remembered.   
  
When I was just a babe, one night my parents sent me off to my aunt Cevolia's. I vaguely remember the amber light of her house, how it seemed eerily calm. My mother gave me a kiss before she left, my father gave me a soft pat on the head. They both told me to behave and promised that I'd have a small peppermint frog when they returned. I was never given that frog by either of them.  
  
Cevolia was called to the flames as she prepared to take me to bed. She held me in her arms when she answered. It was my mother, she told my aunt to floo us both over immediately. Cevolia did as she was told, as soon as my mother's head was replaced by flames, she threw in floo power - turning the flames a strange green. I don't remember what she called out, but soon enough we were finding our way through the network and into a small room. It was dark, lit by five torches. There were seven people in gray cloaks, all of them with white masks that remind me now of very fine bone china. I remember being transfixed by the dancing flames reflected in the shadowy white masks. There was a green spark near the ground, a scream from Cevolia and from two other sources. I looked down at the floor and saw two figures huddled closely together in a mass of tangled hair and shredded cloaks. I knew at once that they were my parents. I called out for my mother, and cried when she did not speak.  
  
My father was in worse shape, I knew his mind was gone as soon as he asked me for wool socks. There's something that defines you as a person when you've seen your once sane father reduced to a sniveling madman. Cevolia drew her wand to defend us from the people shrouded in gray, she took a shot at one, shattering the white mask. That was the first time I saw those glittering black eyes. It was only for a second, though. He was astonished by Cevolia's actions, but could do nothing, fearful if she saw his face. He quickly covered himself with a side of his cloak, and backed away from the group. The rest of the people swarmed us, killing my aunt in the process. The people strangled her with their gloved hands, not a single fingerprint imprinted into her skin.   
  
I recall them wanting to erase my memory, but one thought that I was too young and that my mind would probably repress everything that happened. Others from the group thought it a grand affair that I should remember being witness to my parent's torture and my aunt's death. They left as a group, swooping out like large vultures after they'd finished picking a carcass clean. It was more than two hours before anyone from the Ministry arrived.   
  
It was quite a controversial issue that I should not keep my memory. I think I remember Dumbledore being there at one point, vouching that I should keep it, lest it create troubles later in life. But, the Minister of Magic had been newly appointed and decided that it would be best to make me an example. The first word I ever heard pass though his lips was 'obliviate'. I blinked a couple of times, then asked in my awkward young vocabulary if that was supposed to make me forget my parents. He frowned and again repeated his incantation, no change. He switched spells seven times before he called on one of his men to try it himself, it didn't work either. Twelve people were called to erase my memory, each one failed. The Minister was furious, I remember his face turning an unique shade of mauve before he decided that a potion might work better. I was given every kind of forgetfulness potion that was ever created - none of them worked. I still remembered my parents, my aunt and the beetle-black eyes of the gray swarm. I told none of them about the man, and to their credit, they never asked if I saw who did it.  
  
It took four weeks for them to give up trying to erase my memory. Three days after that, I was allowed to make my first visit to St. Mungo's hospital. My Grandmother took me, she even let me bring my stuffed toad that my mother had given me on my last birthday. They were in separate rooms, everything was white. My mother didn't recognize me, but she kept talking to my stuffed toad like it was someone she knew. She called it 'Trevor'. My father was strapped to his bed. I could tell, even though they had the bedclothes pulled up to his chin. My father never slept like that. He stared at the ceiling, as if it gave all the answers to all the questions ever pondered upon by people like you and I. He sung a nursery rhyme under his breath, as though it spoke truths about life I had never considered.  
  
Gran didn't let me go back for five months after that. I think that she figured I did not want to see them. I also believe her refusal was fueled by the fact I awoke every evening to nightmares.   
  
In my dreams I saw that man's glimmering dark eyes, his face transfixed in horror and surprise as Cevolia cut through his mask. In my dreams the mask is sliced through at an even diagonal, from his left eye to his cheek. His mouth is always open in fright, though it could just be amazement. I've never forgotten that face, no matter how many times people tried to make me forget. My subconscience and conscience mind both willingly refused to let me forget.  
  
After I had been admitted to Hogwarts, and after I had been accepted into Gryffindor house, I saw those eyes again. It was a Tuesday, and had nervously been led by Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan into the Potion's laboratory. Everyone was seated for our first Potion's lesson, and I had a strange feeling of foreboding nagging at the back of my psyche. Our professor swept into the classroom like a raven, his black robes flew at his sides like the wings of a fallen angel. He turned to address the class, and I gazed into the eyes of someone I hadn't seen in more than eight years. His black eyes were as cold as they were the day my parents were tortured. He addressed the class in a small whisper, and I caught every word he said. Each word he spoke was a small dagger in my soul, he reopened a festering wound in me - and I had to get out of there. I was so caught up in everything that I found myself tipping ingredients into my cauldron that I should have left until later. I don't remember much of what happened after that, but I was rushed to the hospital wing by one of my fellow Gryffindors.   
  
A very kind woman fixed me up, she told me that I was lucky I'd caught the professor on a good day - otherwise I might have a hex to go along with my injuries. She was about to send me back on my way when someone appeared at the door. A tall man with a long silvery beard walked in and sat beside me on the hospital bed. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse who tended to me, let us know that she was going to step outside for a moment and asked us to call her if something should happen. The man nodded as she closed the door. He properly introduced himself, and asked about my classes. I told him I was having trouble remembering everything. I confessed that I was never a very good student, and that I had always had troubles with my memory. He nodded and told me that as long as I would put forth the effort to learn, he'd make sure that my teachers would understand that. I thanked him dearly, that was the best bit of news I'd heard in weeks. I hugged him tightly, much to his surprise, and repeated my thanks.   
  
I was about to get up and leave when he asked me about my Potion's class. I froze, ramrod straight and my feet melded with the floor, leaving me unable to escape. Even Trevor, who was beneath my hat, stopped his cheerful croaking. I turned slowly to face the Headmaster, he watched me with carefully veiled eyes and emotions. I asked him why he wanted to know. All I was given in return was a small shrug of his shoulders and a small forgiving smile, he started humming a tune that I vaguely remembered. It was the melody he hummed that made me realize that he knew I remembered about my parents, and about my aunt's death. I sat back down beside him and whispered that I still had dreams about it. He told me that they were only dreams of long ago, and that I should not make quick judgments upon anyone. I nodded and took the advice to heart, knowing that it'd one day be in my best interest to follow it. He left soon after, and Madam Pomfrey sent me on my way. The Headmaster and I have never spoken about it since then.   
  
I have never confronted Severus Snape about the truth of my family, and I do not plan to. The past is something best left buried deep in the ground, and I intend never to dig it up. There are only a few people who know about my parents, less know of my aunt. There is not a single soul beyond Albus Dumbledore and I, that is aware that I've still got memories of that night - except for you. There is only us living, the Headmaster passed on last month, as you know. Everything has played out, all the little dramas and every single scheme. The magical world is at relative peace, and I have many people to thank for that. Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and Severus Snape. Without them, the world would be ruled by the chaos known as Lord Voldemort. Instead, everyone is ruling their own part of the world and living in relative freedom. I am forever grateful for that.  
  
I sign this yearbook with but one hope, that you may remember the words my father sings whenever I pay him visit, for I have no wisdom of my own: "It is the wizard that creates darkness, it is the wizard that creates light. It is the wizard, and him alone, that decides what is wrong or right".  
  
Thank you, Harry, for always being there and for understanding when no one else would.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
_Neville Longbottom  
  
_

***


End file.
